


In Figure Eights

by hxlcyon



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to "Hey I See You Around Too Much Not To Say Anything" to Emotional Vulnerability, F/M, M/M, Other, because all i have are niche prompts and lotsa thoughts about anime boys, i didn't know there was a tag for diner!aus but i'm so glad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxlcyon/pseuds/hxlcyon
Summary: You force your best customer service smile on, “Good?”“No.” Your smile drops when he leans forward, voice honey-syrup slow, rolling with the promise of a storm. “Get me something better.”You force your award-winning customer-service smile back on. He returns it with one of his own.“Will do.”( leona kingscholar/gn!reader )
Relationships: Leona Kingscholar/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. the first step

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my entry for the twisted ballroom collaboration! you can find it  
> [here](https://mishiali10.tumblr.com/post/639064306402639872/twst-ballroom-masterdocs-2021-happy-new)!
> 
> please look at everyone else's works if you have the chance o/!

[ _ listen here _ ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FXSU66JJvf9e2Z5oy5rpV)

**i.**

_ "Oh, but I don't know how to take the first step!" _

_ "It's easy, just close your eyes and follow me." _

Your eyes flutter shut, the monotony of the same blue, misty mornings an easy call to sleep. From behind you, the owner hums soft and low as she carefully slides a chipped cassette into the kitchen’s hanging VCR. The TV screen quickly flickers to life, and, soon, a familiar black and white classic rings through the air—the beginning of your day.

Once, and only once, you had asked her why she played the same movie over and over every morning.

She looked at you then, something heavy and nostalgic in the shake of her head as she simply smiled and said, “it’s hard to shake off those old ghosts, y’know?”

You never asked again after that. In a way, it was comforting to have something so routine every day—as odd or annoying as it might’ve been. At this point, you didn’t even need to open your eyes to see the same couple grin at each other, exaggerated joy plastered onto their smiles as the man begins pulling his partner to the warbly notes of a violin.

The din of the dishes behind you merges together with the quiet cacophony of traffic in the early Sunday morning. You listen as the orchestra plays to the drip of the sink faucet and the woman laughs—her lids lined bright with the powder of several pressed sunsets—as she swoons to the screams of the kettle. The greys through the window of the world beyond melts with the colors of the day as everything wakes up to the tune of the lover’s waltz—rose-lensed and gorgeous.

“Ah!” Somewhere in the kitchen, through the flurry of preparation for the morning rush, the owner’s voice calls out, “can you flip the front sign for me? Got my hands full at the moment!” Sliding off the bar stool, you nod, and somehow through the wall, as if she could see it, she shouts back a quick “thanks!” in return.

As you rub your eyes blearily and take the first step forward to a new day, the door catches on something or  _ someone  _ as it swings open.

"Oi, wake up," the harsh voice snaps you up out of your momentary lapse as you awake into an emerald so dark to be mistaken for pitch black, "or do you not know how to do your job?" 

You scowl and he smirks, sardonic.

“Get a move on.” Not needing to be told, especially by the likes of  _ him,  _ you flip over the weathered cardboard to the cheery welcoming  **OPEN!** You can just barely catch the handle of the door when you turn back, the stranger hardly allowing any time for you to pass through.

It’s almost completely silent inside the diner, the only exception being the staticked screen blaring the click of heels from the other room. Your boss is probably picking up the latest pastries from the local bakery, but that just leaves only the two of you. 

Alone.

_ This sucks. _

You ignore the stranger to focus on the drama—but who’re you kidding? You already know the exact scene that it’s on. The couple on the screen are pressed close to each other—hand to hand, cheek to cheek, heart to heart—as if they could never stand to be apart, not even for a moment, a second. The gleam in their eyes shines like this is the first time they’ve ever met, and the way that they look at each other..

You’re unable to finish your thought as the stranger interrupts you. “Here’s what I want.” The stranger, dressed casual in a loose cotton shirt and sandals, taps against the diner’s plastic menu with a sharp nail. Despite how he looks down at you, it’s hard not to notice how his face is framed perfectly by layers of wild brown—further accentuated by the mean curl of his lips.

Instead of giving him any more attention than what’s necessary, you make it a point to follow his finger all the way down to the bold, happy text surrounded by a colorful party array. “Oh.”

“What?”

“That’s for kids only.” His eyes narrow, and you get only the  _ slightest  _ bit of vindication out of it when he sighs. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Fine, get me whatever.”

“Alright.” You grab him something off the counter, a quick pastry from the downtown local bakery, and slam it down in front of him, wrapped and all. “Here you go.”

He silently stares at it in disbelief and then at you with something alike to malice that then simmers down to something arrogant, competitive. He doesn’t even say a word as he bites into it, purposefully chewing slowly as if relishing the taste—though you knew, fully well, that those pastries needed to be replaced after weeks of laying out in the open. 

Yet, despite it all, you can’t look away, feeling like you’d lose somehow in this unsaid competition of sorts.

The streets outside begin to fill with the sound of passersby making their way to work; soon, the regulars should begin to fill in. There’s no containers of steaming coffee ready to go, and the food for the day remains tucked in the fridge. You  _ should _ be doing your work or something productive at the very least. And yet, your attention is forced to him: this odd, demeaning bastard who should chew faster and leave.

He taps his nails against the red, sticky plastic countertop.

The dancers don’t stop laughing.

_ Finally, _ with one final bite left, he places the remaining pastry gingerly into his mouth and deliberately crunches down into the flaky bread, ripping it apart with canines far too sharp to be comforting.

You force your best customer service smile on, “Good?”

“No.” Your smile drops when he leans forward, voice honey-syrup slow, rolling with the promise of a storm. “Get me something better.”

You force your award-winning customer-service smile back on. He returns it with one of his own. “Will do.”

Later, when he leaves, you find a crisp one hundred dollar bill tucked beneath the napkin dispenser. Accident or not, you pocket it.  _ Finders, keepers, asshole. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also please talk to me @hxlcyon on tumblr because i didn't expect to like leona this much before i started this fic and now i—


	2. a heartbeat

**ii.**

_"This timing is much too hard, how am I supposed to keep track?”_

_“Just listen to the beat of your heart, let it guide you instead.”_

You meet him again when the world is warmed red by the late summer evening glow. The last few patrons of the day mill out, the diner ready to shut early because of a sudden shift in plans.

It seems like he always comes at times when the world feels silent, deserted—when the only person in the room, the only presence worth noticing is _him_ , no one else.

You wonder if he likes it better that way.

He slides into a booth this time, alone still, and wordlessly taps on the menu again. As you reluctantly walk closer, the evening sun transforms the brown of his hair into gold, the light glinting off his hair like a fractured crown. Yet, as he moves backward to avoid the glare, the shadows on his face grow heavier beneath the light, deeper with the shade of resentment—a shade of a person lost somewhere between dawn and dusk.

You blink. You’re thinking too much about it.

He’s pointing again at the same bright font of the diner’s kid-friendly animal pancakes, not even looking down as he motions for you to hurry up. _Seriously?_ The thought suddenly occurs to you that, maybe, he never really cared about what he ate in the first place nor how it would come across as.

He just wanted to see if he could get you to do it.

It’s going to take you an extra fifteen minutes or so to restart all the machines and warm up the food that’s already been put away in the fridge. To be perfectly honest, you could ignore him and continue packing up to go home, ready to enjoy an early day off. 

But, the bags beneath his eyes make you hesitate. He hasn’t said anything snarky yet either—and so, soon enough, you have the batter out, ready to be cooked.

“Anything on top?” No answer, not for a couple of seconds, before he simply states:  
  
“Meat.”

You don’t question it as you grab a sausage and toss it on the stove.

The hiss and bubble of the food fills the silence. He doesn’t make any attempts to fill it, content to stare out the window, and so you continue focused on the task ahead.

Quick and easy, the batter fluffs up as, with practiced hands, you begin to drizzle over the batter in layers. Peeking up from your work, you catch the stranger sitting there aimlessly; despite his slouch, his leather jacket worn from years of use, it’s easily evident that he’s more well-off than he lets on. Silky smooth hair, a healthy complexion, the subtle slip of a designer-curated tag proudly sewn in his neck collar—whether or not he meant it to, the rich boy in him was evident.

Of course, some people just don’t know how to hide their pride. But, from the roll of his shoulders, the thrumming energy beneath his sneer, you could easily tell that none of it mattered to him anyway. Fortunate for him to have that choice.

_A lion then._ _  
_ _  
_ The batter curls into a pleasant, perfect golden-brown as you flip it over to a messy, but lovable imitation of a yawning lion. Practiced, your hands mechanically act as you scoop it onto a plate, whip out the toppings, and finish up. Cover it in some syrup, get the meat, and.. voilà! One of the eyes might be a little bit wonky, but it’s covered up enough by everything else to barely be noticeable.

He turns his head back when you come to the booth, barely acknowledging you even as you slide his plate over. “Here you go, Lion King 2 Electric Boogaloo prepared just for you.” Fully expecting a thank you or at least a nod, you only receive a scoff as he appraises it with a frown.

“Seriously?” With his bare hand, he picks it up as the whip cream and syrup slide down pathetically onto the plate below. Disdained, he lifts it up to the fading light and laughs, “looks sloppy.”

“You do it then.” You retort, “Look, I’m supposed to close up now. So, hurry up and—”

“Least it smells good.” It’s loud as he unceremoniously drops it and begins to tear it apart with an actual fork this time. “I’ll give you that.”

A weird surge of pride inflates in your chest and floats up to your head against all odds. _Turns out he can say something nice._. _sorta._ Though, the way he says it, chewing so slowly with his fork scraping harshly against the porcelain bottom, makes you wonder.

_It’s like he can barely even taste it._

The ceiling fans lazily turn and turn, and somewhere in the distance, a car honks as someone hollers back. His fork continues dragging through the distorted lion’s face.

It’s almost impossible to gauge if he notices or feels _anything_ , expression back to being as blank as an empty slate, a certain dissonance to his actions— _like he’s accepted fading into the empty environment, as if he’ll let himself disappear alongside the setting sun._

A heartbeat passes.

He’s barely through his second bite when you suddenly blurt out, “whatever it is,” the sun shifts onto you, and _god,_ it’s still bright as hell and you look like a fool squinting at him, but you don’t stop. “I’m not going to pry.” He rolls his eyes and stabs his fork into the eye of the poor lion.

“Did I ever want you to?”

“No. _No_ , and I’m not going to ask to.” He lifts his head, carefully listening as you attempt to string together words. “But, you’re always free to stop by whenever. Y’know, when the diner is actually open. I’ll make you something again.”

You watch as he stops mid-chew, eyes widening as he’s stunned into silence. He blinks once, and then the strangest thing happens.

The stranger’s face lights up into a smile as he begins to cackle, his shoulders drop down and he throws his head back, something mad written into the gesture, but it’s _genuine._ He wears his smile like an old coat, out-of-place and uncharacteristic, like it’s some old, dusty fragment of himself that he’s struggling to put back on. But, most of all.. most of all, he looks _relieved._

He puts his fork down, resting his face on his hands as his laughter dies off. “Ah, I’m tired.” There are scars on his hands, of all shapes and sizes, some faded, some fresh—the hands of someone who has tried very, very hard for a very long time.

“It’s getting late, that might be it.” He huffs, strands of hair flying up in a whirlwind around him. “Eat up at least."

“Don’t give me orders.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He wipes away fake tears from the edges of his eyes as he finally begins to actually finish up eating. You can’t quite pinpoint it, but something about him seems lighter, proud, maybe even _hopeful_ if you dared _._

“This is actually pretty edible.”

“Hey—”

Suddenly, he’s close.

Sunlight casts the green of his eyes into a plane of golden wildfire, amusement dancing in the flames while electricity crackles in his every breath. The roar of blood rushes to your ears as his lips move, just barely brushing against your skin as he whispers, “Make this better next time.”

It’s all you can do to keep your cool as your heart decides to suddenly throw itself into emergency mode, all rapid-fire and no control that _isn’t_ helped by his knowing smirk. “Kid’s menu only.” You finish, lamely, but it’s an astronomical feat considering how your tongue feels like lead.

“Whatever.”

There’s syrup still left on his plate, sticky and sweet, and you know you didn’t take a bite but somehow, someway your senses overlap and the smell of it becomes heavy on your lips as he gets up and brushes his knuckles across the backs of your fingers.

“Remember what I said.” As he moves to leave, already halfway across the room with his long strides, he tilts his head back, “Leona.” 

“Huh?”

His hand comes up to lazily wave goodbye as the door slams shut behind him, and, once more, you’re left alone. It’s beginning to get dark, and luckily you know your boss personally enough to know she doesn’t mind you staying behind longer. Issue was: you’ve got extra work to clean up now and an extra hour to kill while waiting for the next bus. No thanks to a certain stranger—though was he truly a stranger now?

“Leona” was just an ass. Handsome, perhaps, but nevertheless a self-serving, lazy asshole who waltzes around as if he needs to prove himself better than everyone.

However, against your better judgment, you roll his name over your tongue, new, unfamiliar.

  
_Leona._  
  
You weren’t sure if you would ever get used to it.


End file.
